


Where is My Mind?

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Telepathy, Unrequited Love, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt from ariadnes_string:  "The anklet develops some spooky extra powers: it starts transmitting Neal's thoughts and/or feelings--but only to Peter."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where is My Mind?

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a song by The Pixies.

Neal answered his phone on the first ring, reading the display as he did so. Conference Room 4. “Caffrey.”

“Neal, it’s me,” said Peter. “Remember I told you the Bureau wanted to test a new tracking anklet out for you?”

“You were serious?”

“Yes. Can you come to the conference room? It’s ready.”

Neal hung up and walked up the stairs to the conference room, reluctance apparent in his very body language. He found Peter and another man seated at the table, heads bent over – something – and speaking in hushed tones. Peter was running his hands over the object in question. “All right, break it up,” he snarked, and entered the room.

Peter looked at him with an annoyed expression, and the other man just regarded him as if he were an interesting specimen in a lab. When he looked at him, Neal had to do a double-take. If not for the fact that he was perhaps fifteen pounds heavier and dressed in an actual lab coat, the man looked remarkably like Mozzie.

“Neal, this is Dr. Richard Barlowe from T&T down in Quantico. Dr. Barlowe, Neal Caffrey.”

Barlowe rose; he was maybe an inch shorter than Moz. Neal extended a hand and the other man shook it, his hand a damp, limp thing. “It’s a pleasure,” Not-Moz said.

“T&T?” Neal questioned, raising an eyebrow in Peter’s direction and surreptitiously wiping his hand on his pant leg.

Peter looked at him quizzically – did he not see the resemblance? “Tactics and Technology. They’re prototyping a new type of tracking anklet, and would like for you to field test it for them.”

Not-Moz held the new anklet out to Peter with both hands, as if he were handling a newborn. “It’s very cutting edge stuff, Mr. Caffrey, employing nanobot technology.”

“Nanobot?”

“Yes, microscopic robots. Their applications are almost endless, but in his case, they’re used to not only power the device but monitor and analyze the wearer’s heart rate, blood alcohol level, temperature, GPS coordinates, and any number of variables to actually learn about the wearer’s activities.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Neal said ruefully. Peter smirked with glee.

“Oh, yes,” Not-Moz continued. “And by using predictive analytics back in the monitoring station, we can even anticipate a subject’s reactions to given stimuli.”

Neal gave Peter an alarmed look. “Oh, but that’s only experimental at this point. The software is still in beta testing,” Not-Moz finished.

“What a shame,” Neal commented, stepping forward and taking the anklet from Barlowe. It resembled a thicker version of the kind of security bracelet you might see at a concert venue, except it was made of surprisingly supple black leather. Neal found himself admiring the hand tooling and stainless steel closure. “It’s certainly lighter than the other one.”

“We did consider the comfort of the wearer in its design,” Not-Moz pointed out proudly.

“Well, let’s try it on, shall we?” Peter said impatiently and snatched the thing out of Neal’s hands. He didn’t notice Not-Moz flinch and almost lunge forward when he did; the man was clearly concerned that the device not be damaged.

Neal put his left foot on a nearby chair and Peter bent over to remove the old tracker. He retrieved the new version and fiddled with the closure, finally getting it open. “This as tamper-resistant as the other one?” he asked Barlowe.

“It is, Agent Burke. This electronic key operates in a similar fashion,” he held up a small silver USB-looking thing. “And there is a titanium core that makes cutting the anklet very difficult.”

Peter made his impressed face and bent forward to fasten it around Neal’s ankle. “Ouch!” he said, snatching his right hand away as it snapped closed.

“You OK?” Neal asked.

“Yeah, it just caught on my thumb as it closed,” Peter said, sucking at the blood that was welling up from the cut. He gestured down at Neal’s ankle. “How’s it feel?”

Neal put his foot down and flexed it, looking down critically. Thanks to its lack of bulk and dark color, it was nearly undetectable against his black dress socks. “It’s light, comfortable. I can’t complain,” he said appreciatively.

“Is there a key?” Peter asked Not-Moz.

“Yes, but there’s only the one, and it needs to stay with me. We have several trials in progress at present.”

“And the tracking software?”

Not-Moz returned to the table and looked at the laptop he’d left there, clicking the mouse a few times. He turned it to face Neal and Peter. The display held a colorful dashboard that included a map of Manhattan with a virtual map pin stuck into the side of the Federal building. Peter sat and clicked around the application for a few minutes. “Hey look, Neal, it says here your heart rate is normal, but hmmm, you should mind your blood pressure, buddy,” Peter teased.

Neal ignored him. “And how long will this trial last?”

“Thirty days. We’ll need that long to compile any kind of meaningful data. Now I must be off to Trenton, to deliver two more of the prototypes.”

“We’ll walk you out,” Peter said, rising and escorting Not-Moz to the elevators.

Peter stopped by Diana’s desk on the way back in. “Hey, Di, you got a band-aid?”

She handed him one from her purse. “Hello Kitty?” Neal laughed.

Diana smiled. “Christy’s niece was visiting last weekend. Sorry Boss, it’s all I’ve got.”

“I think it’s cute,” Neal said and Peter scowled.

Just then, Hughes appeared at the railing from the upper offices. Spotting Peter and Neal, he made a gesture with his right hand.

_“The double finger point. God, does he know how much we hate that?”_ Neal said.

“Probably,” Peter said under his breath.

“Huh?” Neal said. He looked at Peter quizzically.

“Didn’t you just say something?”

Neal just widened his eyes. “Uh, no.”

“Let’s go. Can’t keep the old man waiting.” He led the way up to Hughes’ office.

\----

“Anton Romesco,” Hughes said as Peter and Neal settled themselves at the small table in his office.

“The movie producer?” Neal asked, his interest piqued.

“The same. He thinks he’s been scammed and so he called his old friend the Assistant Director for help. This case is right up your alley, Caffrey: counterfeit wine.”

Neal cocked his head to the side and licked his lips. “What are the details?” Peter asked.

Hughes explained that their crime victim, a wealthy and successful movie producer, had bought a number of bottles of various vintage at a recent wine auction in Hong Kong. When he’d taken delivery and opened some of the bottles to enjoy, he immediately became suspicious, since its quality was sorely lacking. Worried he’d been conned, he contacted a well-known wine dealer to consult, and there were now doubts as to their authenticity. His next call was to the FBI.

“I frankly think this is a waste of the division’s time and resources, but Romesco has friends in high places,” Hughes said as he concluded the story. He passed a slip of paper to Peter. “Here’s the address of his house uptown. He’s expecting you both.”

\----

Neal and Peter waited in the library of Anton Romesco’s mansion in the East 70’s. Neal was slowly making his way around the room, taking in the impressive art collection, Peter at his elbow to make sure he stayed out of trouble.

Peter paused to admire a Cassatt. “This one’s nice.”

“Must’ve paid a pretty penny for that one,” Neal commented, moving on.

_“Sentimental crap,”_ he added.

“Be nice,” Peter admonished.

“Huh?”

“Did you say something?”

“No, but the Courbet’s a fake.”

“What? How do you know?”    

“A lot of these are. Romesco must have the real ones in a safe somewhere. Shame really.”

“Not to display them?”

“Well, that, plus I’d have done a better job of it.” Neal turned away and strolled over to a nearby bookcase, inspecting the rare books housed there. “ _Wonder where he keeps them_ ,” Neal said.

“Just don’t you worry about where he keeps them,” Peter said.

Neal gave him another strange look and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of Anton Romesco.

“Gentlemen, welcome to my home. I am grateful to the FBI for responding so quickly.” Romesco’s speech was studied and unaccented, making Neal wonder where he was really from. He was of medium height and build, with a dark complexion and thick dark curls that he wore cut close to his scalp. His eyes were dark brown and large, setting off a hooked nose that would have made him look like some sort of predator if it weren’t for the open, easy expression on his face. If Neal had to guess, Anton Romesco had grown up with street smarts, but his success in the movie industry had definitely softened their impact on his life today.

“Mr. Romesco, it’s a pleasure,” Peter said, shaking the proffered hand.

“Please call me Tony.”

“This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey.”

Romesco shook Neal’s hand with a warm smile, but Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that the other man knew exactly with who – and what – he was dealing. Neal flashed a bright smile, “We were just admiring your art collection.”

“You mean my gallery of fakes?” Tony said with a laugh. “My insurance company insisted I take precautions with my art when there was a rash of break-ins last year. I hate having them here, but I suppose it’s better to be safe.” He gestured for them to sit on a nearby sofa and took a seat in a leather club chair.

“Tell us about the wines,” Peter prompted.

“I guess it’s becoming all too common a story these days, isn’t it? I recently attended a wine auction at Weatherby’s in Hong Kong. There were going to be some Lafite library wines on the block, as well as some other vintages I was interested in. I won the bid on three cases of 1969 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti La Tâche.”

Neal made a low whistle. “How much did you pay?”

“$2,500 a bottle – the bidding got a little heated. But I was happy to pay it, believe me. I had tasted that wine once before on a trip to France and I had to own some for myself.”

“I understand. What happened next?”

“When the wines finally arrived last week, I wanted to celebrate, so I booked the chef’s table at Daniel and invited five of my closest friends to sample the wine. The meal was superb, the wine was not.”

“Embarrassing,” Peter commented. Neal noticed he was staring at his cuticles.

“ _Try to at least_ look _interested, Peter,”_ Neal seemed to whisper. Peter glanced at him sharply, but he was looking intently at Tony, and neither man reacted to the comment. Puzzled, thinking he’d heard wrong, Peter returned his attention to the conversation.

“Embarrassing, nothing. I was pissed. I paid over ninety grand to bring these wines home. I immediately called my friend Max Stockton, who is a wine dealer and expert on burgundies, to see if he could authenticate them. He told me they were fakes – very good fakes, but there you have it. My next call was to you.”

“Do you have the contact details of the people you dealt with at the auction house and with the import company? We’ll need to interview them immediately.”

“ _Ooo, maybe we need to go to Hong Kong_ ,” Neal enthused.

“No, I don’t think the Bureau will spring for two tickets to Hong Kong,” Peter said with a frown to Neal.

“I didn’t say – “

Peter cut him off with a gesture. “Thank you for seeing us, Tony. We’ll be in touch with you as soon as we know anything.”

\----

At the end of the day, Peter convened the team for a strategy meeting on the case. The little information he had himself pulled together was spread out in front of him on the conference room table, his laptop and a cup of coffee at his elbow. Slowly, the team assembled in the room, discussing the aspects of the case they’d been able to pull together in the last three hours. Neal was the last to arrive, a stack of _Wine Spectator_ and _Decanter_ magazines in his arms, multiple yellow sticky notes protruding from their pages.

“ _Oh, the bifocals make an appearance. Mmmm,”_ Neal said in a low voice. Peter gave him a look, but his back was to him as he made his way to a seat at the far end of the room. Peter removed the glasses self-consciously, not a little annoyed at the comment.

“Settle down,” he said, mock-sternly. The agents politely stopped talking. Neal gave him his undivided attention. “Tell me what we know so far. Diana – what about the auction house?”

“I wasn’t able to talk with anyone in Hong Kong yet, but the auctioneer is actually based here in the city. I set up a meeting with him for you tomorrow morning, as well as their director of acquisitions.”

“Excellent. Jones, any luck with the customs agent?”

“I’m meeting with the guy tomorrow morning. I’m not sure if it’ll turn into anything – ithey seem pretty legit. I’ll get to the bottom of it, but it’s slow going.”

_“Jones has really nice teeth. So straight. I wonder if he had braces as a kid?”_ Neal said. Peter looked at Neal sharply – what the hell? But Neal was still looking at Jones, and no one else in the room, Jones included, seemed to have heard the comment. Peter decided to ignore it for now, but then Neal continued, _“Jones really does have a sexy mouth. What I wouldn’t give for just five minutes with him on his knees –“_

If Peter hadn’t been looking right at Neal when this comment was made, and seen that his _mouth had not moved_ , he wouldn’t have believed it. He quickly covered, “Try talking with Joe Rubens over at US Customs down in Newark – he’ll help you sort it out. Tell him I sent you.”

“Good idea. I’ll call in the morning.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve found a few ads in these trade magazines that look fishy. We might find something there,” Neal said.

“Go on.”

“There are ads for very high end wine dealers offering rare vintages at very reasonable prices. Severely underpriced, I’d say. It might be a lead.”

“We’ll check on that in the morning. A good start, everyone. We’ll meet tomorrow at the same time for a status update. Thank you.”

The assembled group got up and collected their papers and filed out of the room.

_“God, Diana’s breasts in that top are like two puppies wrestling. Is she even wearing a bra? Christy is one lucky lady!”_ Neal said, and yet again, no one reacted, and finally Peter knew something was extremely wrong.

He put a hand on Neal’s arm as he walked past. “Neal, can you hang on for a minute?”

“Sure,” Neal said, looking attentively at Peter. “ _Man, that’s the most boring tie I’ve ever seen_ ,” he said, eyes flicking downward briefly, yet again his mouth did not move.

“You know, these jokes about my wardrobe are getting extremely old,” Peter said, exasperated.

Neal looked at him sharply. “I never said – “

“I know. Something very strange is going on. It appears I can hear what you’re thinking.”

“ _That’s impossible_ ,” Neal thought, and he followed it by saying aloud, “That’s impossible.”

“Tell me about it, but how else would I know that you apparently can’t keep your mind out of the gutter during staff meetings?”

“Um…” Neal’s ears began to turn pink.

“It’s really disrespectful, Neal. Honestly, you’re like a horny teenager.”

The pinkness was now a bright crimson, and had infiltrated Neal’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak several times, and finally said sulkily, “It _has_ been months, Peter.”

Peter held up a finger. “It’s no excuse.”

“Can we not talk about that, now? Because you can now apparently _read my mind_!” Neal hissed. “That adds whole new levels to the word disturbing. Not to mention intrusive.” “ _I feel so violated_ ,” he thought, and Peter couldn’t say he wouldn’t feel the same if the circumstances were reversed.

“I know you feel violated, Neal,” he said, and flinched as he realized he was yet again responding to a thought of Neal’s and not a statement. “If I could stop it I would, believe me. There are many places I’d rather be than inside your brain.”

Neal breathed through his nose, attempting to calm down. “How could this have happened? You’re not suddenly psychic or something? You’ve always said you could get inside my head when you were chasing me – you weren’t _literally_ inside my head, were you? Because that’s got to violate at least a few laws, right?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“Has anything happened in the last few days that might have changed things? Any blows to the head, or, shit, alien abductions?” Neal was sounding a bit hysterical.

Peter wracked his brain, and came up with just one conclusion. “The only thing that’s changed is the new tracker. You don’t think that has anything to do with it?”

“Well, let’s get Bunson Honeydew on the line and see what he says,” Neal suggested.

\----

Fifteen minutes later, they sat in Peter’s office behind a closed door, Dr. Barlowe on speaker phone with the volume turned down at Neal’s insistence. “Richard Barlowe.”

“Dr. Barlowe, Agent Peter Burke here. We have run into a complication, we think, with Mr. Caffrey’s new tracking anklet.”

“Oh?” Barlowe said. Neal thought he detected a note of concern there, but he might have been imagining.

“It, uh, seems to be projecting more than just Neal’s coordinates and blood pressure, doctor.”

“Is Mr. Caffrey experiencing any hallucinations?”

“What? No,” Neal replied. He and Peter exchanged alarmed looks.

“Then what’s the problem?” Barlowe asked lightly, clearing his throat.

“Well, doctor, it seems that I can, well…”Peter dithered

“He can read my freaking mind, doc!” Neal finished for him, thinking, “ _Jeez, sack up_ ,” at him and smirking when Peter heard him loud and clear. Peter gave him a dark look as the doctor answered.

“Oh, dear. That’s unfortunate.”

“You think?” both men replied down the phone.

“You may have been infected by some of the nanobots from Mr. Caffrey’s anklet, Agent Burke. Recall when you snagged your hand on the clasp? It’s likely that some of the nanobots from within the tracker are now in your blood stream and have lodged themselves in the communication centers of your brain. I believe they are trying to communicate with the nanobots in the anklet, and this is the, uh, side effect.”

Peter recoiled, a look of utter revulsion on his face. “ _Snap! How do we stop it?”_ Neal thought, looking Peter in the eyes. “Can we stop it?” Peter repeated.

“I’m afraid not. The only solution will be to remove the tracking anklet, but as I have the only key, you will need to wait until I can return to New York. That won’t be until late tomorrow at the earliest, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t make it sooner?”

“I have an important meeting with the NSA tomorrow, I cannot miss it.”

“ _I’m sure they’ll love to hear about this little development. Why not head over to the CIA too while you’re at it? Christ, Moz’ll have a field day with this one_ ,” Neal thought, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes shut. He was beginning to get a migraine.

Peter tried to ignore him. “Well, can’t we just cut it off?”

“Agent Burke, that anklet represents over 15 million dollars worth of research. No, you cannot cut it off. You will have to wait until I return with the key.”

“And in the meantime? What do we do until then?”

“I’m afraid there’s not much you can do, though if it’s any consolation, the nanobots won’t harm you physically. A lack of proximity may provide temporary relief but I doubt it. The nanobots use 4G communication protocols to communicate at high bandwidth and in real time. Unless you can find a place with no mobile phone service, you’ll have to deal with the situation as best you can.”

“ _Fucking great_ ,” Neal thought.

“So I guess I should just sleep on the subway tonight?” Peter snarked.

“That may not be a bad idea,” Barlowe said. “I must be going. I’ll be on the 8:00 pm Acela tomorrow evening.”

“We’ll have a man meet you at Penn Station,” Peter said with a sigh and hung up.

The two men looked at each other. “Now what?” Peter asked.

“We go home and hope our little friends take a while to establish a connection over the East River. What else can we do?”

Peter rose and pulled on his jacket with a sigh. “Just keep thinking good thoughts, OK?”

“That is _so_ going to be a problem.”

\----

Peter spent the longest night of his life at first trying to ignore and finally trying to drown out Neal’s thoughts by playing the television at near maximum volume. Elizabeth was thankfully out of town, so he could toss and turn and mutter without disturbing anyone, but Satchmo eventually left him in search of his downstairs doggie bed and some peace and quiet.

By midnight, it had become worse, as the nanobots were now receiving visual images in addition to audio, and the stuff of Neal’s dreams was disturbing to say the least. Images of Kate’s death were stuck on repeat, her image appearing again and again, twisted in silent agony. When they stopped – Peter surmised Neal had awakened from the nightmares – they were replaced by fleeting images of past crime capers and associates, most of which Peter didn’t recognize or know about, and he wished he never did. Eventually Neal seemed to quiet down, and Peter thought he must’ve fallen asleep again.

Peter felt himself drifting off to sleep until – he was suddenly assaulted by an image of himself, naked, lying on a large bed. He was kissing himself. No, _Neal_ was kissing _him_. Caressing him, _stroking_ him. Shit, Neal was having a sex dream and Peter was its star. He had no idea Neal had these kinds of feelings for him. Sure, the man was a consummate flirt, but Peter figured that was some sort of coping mechanism or, as had been demonstrated today, he was just horny way too often. But these images were wholly unwelcome.

As were the accompanying sensations. “Fuck,” Peter gasped a little as he covered his face with his arm. He soon realized he was about to have sex with himself…or at least experience another man’s thoughts, feelings and impressions of that act. And he felt himself getting hard at the thought of it. His body suddenly overheated, he threw the covers back and plunged his own hand down his boxers.

In Neal’s dream, Peter was now on top of him, their bodies entwined as Peter kissed and sucked his way down Neal’s neck and throat. Neal responded by rubbing his cock against dream-Peter, who pulled back suddenly. Cold air rushed between them. “Not so fast,” dream-Peter murmured. He rolled to the side and began to kiss his way down Neal’s chest and abs, until he was hovering just above Neal’s cock where it lay against his stomach. Peter – the real Peter - glanced down and could see the top of his dream-self’s head as he took Neal’s dick into his mouth. His own hips bucked as his dream-image sucked on it, kissed it, ran his tongue up and down, over and around. The image cut out as dream-Neal closed his eyes, but the sensations remained. After a few moments, dream-Peter was enthusiastically deep-throating Neal. Both Neal and the real Peter moaned and thrashed as they came close to orgasm, Neal fisting his hands in dream-Peter’s hair as the real Peter jacked his own cock rapidly. When they came, it was with Peter’s name on both their lips.

\----

An exhausted Peter arrived at the office after 9:00 the next morning, and fixed Neal with a steely glare. “ _Safety Dance_? Really?”

Neal gave him an innocent expression. “I can’t control what song will get stuck in my head,” he protested, a smirk playing across his lips. “Last week it was Celine Dion – consider yourself lucky.”

“Get your hat; we’re leaving for Weatherby’s now.”

“Sure thing, RoboCop.”

“You were just waiting to use that, weren’t you?”

“Hey, you would know.”

“Let’s go.”

\----

They returned later that morning with no solid leads and no idea where to go next. The seller of the wines had been a completely legitimate private collector, and the auctioneer was completely above board. According to Jones, the import company was also completely legit, bonded and insured, a subsidiary of a publicly-traded next-day shipping company. A dead end.

Over a lunch of “sushi, delicious sushi” – a phrase Neal repeated in his head to keep from projecting more thoughts Peter’s way – they went over the chain of events to see if there was an angle they had missed.

“So, somewhere along the line, the wines must’ve been switched, because the auction house authenticated their origins,” Peter said.

_“Sushi, delicious sushi.”_

“So if it’s not the seller, and it definitely isn’t the auction house, and the shipment was still sealed when it arrived in US customs, what are we missing?”

“No idea.”

“If you were going to do this, how would it go?” Peter asked, mixing more wasabi into his soy sauce.

“I’d fake the bottles from the jump. But we already know that didn’t happen. What if…what if they were never switched? What if the counterfeit is the con?”

“What are you saying?”

“What if they were always the real deal and the wines that were sampled at Romesco’s party were the counterfeits? How much do we know about this Stockton guy, anyway?“

Peter smiled, warming to the theory. “If he convinces Romesco that the bottles have been faked, and can get his hands on them, he can sell them himself. Perfect motive. But would he risk his reputation?”

“Only one way to find out,” Neal said, popping a bit of tuna into his mouth and gesturing to the waiter for the check.

\----

Max Stockton’s offices were in a converted warehouse on the water near Chelsea Piers. Peter and Neal were ushered into his personal office and asked to wait until he got off of a conference call with a buyer in Napa.

“ _Sure, a buyer in Napa_ ,” Neal thought.

“Let’s keep an open mind,” Peter admonished.

“I would like to keep a closed mind,” Neal commented pointedly.

“Touché.”

Ten minutes of _Safety Dance_ later, Stockton breezed into the room, all apologies for keeping them waiting. He was tall and older – about 60 – with his thinning hair combed straight back. He wore a tan linen suit and an open-necked shirt. Neal noticed the pinky ring with a scowl of distaste.

Stockton took a seat at his desk and lit a cigarette with a cursory, “Do you mind?” to his guests, for which he didn’t await an answer. Both Peter and Neal wondered how the man could call himself a wine expert if he was a smoker.

“I believe Mr. Romesco informed you we were investigating his wine fraud case. Can you please share your version of events?”

Stockton conveyed his side of the story while Neal and Peter watched him closely for tells and other indications of lying. Peter had to admit the man was smooth, but Neal was staring at him intently.

“ _I know this guy. Where do I know this guy from_?” he repeated in his mind over and over, to the point of distracting Peter from the man’s story. Peter put a hand on Neal’s wrist and the thoughts stopped, though Neal’s intent gaze did not.

Eventually, Stockton himself noticed and fixed Neal with an annoyed expression. “Is there something wrong? Why is he staring at me?”

“I’m sorry, I think we’ve met before, haven’t we?” Neal finally had to say, interrupting the conversation.

“I don’t think so,” Stockton replied, but he glanced to his left as he did, and Peter immediately knew he was lying.

_“Lew something,”_ Neal thought and his mind finally coughed up the information. “Lew Shields!” _“Two-bit mother-effer,”_ his mind added. “You and Keller pulled that Ponzi scheme in Chicago back in ’03!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stockton stammered.

“Oh sure, don’t you remember, we played poker at that party out in the Hamptons six years ago at Billy Joel’s? I think you still owe me five grand, Lew.”

Stockton’s face became sharper and his eyes narrowed as he dropped all pretense of feigning ignorance. “So, what of it?”

“I think you’ve been up to your old tricks, Lew. Tell me, do you already have a buyer for the Romanées, or were you planning on keeping them for yourself? That’s a pretty great wine, I hear. Great year for burgundies – dry summer. I wouldn’t mind tasting it, personally.”

All conversation stopped as Stockton swiftly opened a bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a 9mm and pointed it at Neal’s head.

“ _Gun! He’s got a gun!”_ Neal’s thoughts fairly shouted.

Peter flinched. “I can see that,” he said. Both men put their hands in the air.

“Stand up,” Stockton ordered and they complied. He stepped forward and snatched Peter’s gun out of his shoulder holster, putting it in his own jacket pocket. Then he reeled his gun-hand back and clocked Peter across the side of his head. Peter fell to the floor like a stone, dazed. Stockton pointed the gun at Neal and said, “You’re my ticket outta here. Move!” Neal preceded him out the door, Stockton walking just behind him with the gun stuck painfully into his ribs. “Act natural,” he hissed into Neal’s ear and the two made their way from the building.

\----

Peter woke to hear a voice in his head that wasn’t his own. “ _OK, so we’re headed to the DOCKS, I see_ ,” Neal was projecting his thoughts at him. “ _Looks like he’s hoping for some sort of water-based getaway, Peter. Peter! Wake up, Peter_!”

“’m up, Ma!” Peter groaned and sat up. He shook his head to clear it, grabbed hold of a nearby chair to help himself rise, and reached down to grab his backup weapon from his ankle holster. He staggered out to reception, pulling his badge. “FBI. Is there an exit to the docks?”

As he made his way down the stairs, Peter could hear Neal’s side of a conversation in his head which helped him understand the situation he was running toward. “ _Come on Lew, you should give it up. Before anyone gets hurt. OW!”_

“ _Jeez, not the face!”_ Neal was complaining in his mind, “ _Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow_!” Lew must’ve hit Neal, which spurred Peter to move faster. He began to take the stairs two-by-two.

Peter burst out of the doors, blinking in the bright sunshine. “Neal!” he yelled.

“ _Down the pier to your right_ ,” Neal directed him. Peter could sense Neal’s pain and fear, but his words were calm. He took off at a run.

He found Stockton and Neal in a small powerboat at the end of the pier. Stockton had clearly been trying to cast off the mooring lines, and Neal was struggling to stop him, trying to delay until Peter could arrive. Stockton landed a vicious right across Neal’s jaw and he went down, the boat rocking wildly from the motion. Peter drew a bead on Stockton from where he stood and shouted, “Freeze, Stockton!” He inched closer, as close as he dared.

Stockton bent and lifted Neal with his free arm, holding the gun against the con’s temple as he did. “I don’t think so, Fed,” he spat.

Peter noticed Neal did not struggle; he was still dazed. “There are only so many ways this can end, Stockton, and most of them involve you taking a bullet. Give it up.”

“I’ll kill your boy!”

“Give it up, Stockton!”

“ _Peter!”_ Neal called to him silently. Peter’s eyes flicked over to Neal’s. Suddenly, an image flooded Peter’s mind.

“You sure?” Peter mouthed.

Neal nodded and closed his eyes. Peter sighted along his gun, adjusted his aim and fired. The bullet hit Neal in the fleshy part of his left thigh and he dropped like an anchor.

Momentarily caught off-balance, Stockton let him fall. Peter took advantage of his distraction and fired again, this time hitting Stockton square in his right shoulder. He fell as well, his gun tumbling into the river. Peter climbed down the ladder to the boat dock and approached with gun still drawn, remembering that Stockton had taken Peter’s primary weapon. When he arrived to look down into the boat, Neal had apparently recalled that as well, since he had already taken it from the man’s pocket and was removing the clip. He collapsed, panting, back against the side of the boat, his face a mask of pain. “ _Shit—fuck –ow-ow-ow_ ,” ran through his – and Peter’s – brain.

Peter holstered his weapon and pulled out his cell phone, calling Jones to arrange for police backup and EMS. “You OK?” he asked Neal. He saw a rapidly spreading puddle of blood forming beneath Neal’s leg. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Peter grabbed onto the moorings with one hand and reached forward, helping Neal out of the boat and easing him to a seated position on the dock. Peter quickly removed his own tie and tied it as tightly as he could around the top of Neal’s thigh to slow the flow of blood. He then removed his jacket, folded it up and pressed it to Neal’s wound. Neal winced, but Peter took his hand and guided it to the wadded-up cloth. “Hold this here – press on it, Neal. Hard. Harder! I’ll go see about Stockton.”

Peter scrambled into the boat to check on their suspect. He was struggling to sit up in the floor of the boat. “Stay down,” Peter advised, and helped him to do so with a foot to his uninjured shoulder. “By the way, you’re under arrest and have the right to remain silent.” By the time Peter finished Mirandizing him, he could hear sirens approaching. He scrambled up out of the boat as the first officers approached, turning Stockton over to their custody. The ambulance was a few minutes behind.

Peter returned to Neal’s side. “How ya doin’, buddy?”

“See, this is why I hate guns,” Neal said through gritted teeth.

Peter saw that his grip on the jacket had slackened, so he applied extra pressure himself.

Neal groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Fuck me!”_ he thought and Peter grinned.

“Isn’t that what we did last night?”

Neal’s eyes flew open and despite his pain, they bored right into Peter’s. “That is _so_ not fair.”

“You’re telling me? I had a front row seat to having actual sex with _myself_.”

“And?”’

“And what?”

“Wasn’t it hot?”

Peter laughed. “No comment.”

Neal grinned despite his pain. The EMTs had arrived and were heading their way with a gurney. “When this is over, I’m going to pants that little Barlowe dweeb.”

“The line starts behind me.”

 ----  
Thank you for your time.


End file.
